Entirely Different People?
by CaptainEmo
Summary: It's five years later, and William is flying to Italy to travel Europe for the summer. But when his plane lands in the wrong airport, the past catches up with him.
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: I own absolutely positively nothing even remotely Almost-Famous-related, with the exception of the DVD. (Unfortunately.)_

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**Chapter 1: Home**

William tapped the steering wheel of the used Chevy, listening to the bland conversation of radio hosts and thinking. He was leaving San Diego. Tomorrow he would wake up in Italy, to spend the summer doing the Europe thing. His mother had not been happy about this, unsurprisingly, but God knew he'd had enough experience taking care of himself. In fact, it had been her idea nine years ago, he'd pointed out, to use those two extra years and explore; "see what you like," she'd said. And he was twenty, after all.

"I'm feelin' a little nostalgic today, Jim," announced the radio loudly. The opening notes of Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" floated through the speakers. William smiled automatically.

_"I have to go home," he told Penny bluntly. Around them, choruses of 'hold me closer, tiny dancer' could be heard. Penny waggled her fingers at him, smiling as if she knew something he didn't. _

_"You are home."_

Home. By this time William was sure it was just a concept, an idea at most; something to console yourself when you were lonely. He thought he knew home until he left with Stillwater in '73, where he felt very much at home in various hotel rooms and a random party in Topeka. Then he returned to San Diego, which quickly became home again, and until graduation two days ago "home" was his dorm at USD. Tomorrow home would be a hostel in downtown Palermo. People got homesick all the time, but really you could make a home anywhere. If you went by that saying, "Home is where the heart is," then home was wherever you were. Home was an imaginary place within reach whenever you felt disconsolate. And that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, just a little sad in a way.  
The song faded out slowly, to be followed by an extremely loud Zeppelin anthem. William drummed his fingers to the beat. Tomorrow he would be home.

* * *

William buckled his seatbelt and slid on some headphones. Multiple guitars strummed, launching into a familiar Who song. The mobster type next to him frowned and shifted in irritation, signaling the stewardess for a beer. Rolling away from him, William faced the window. The view from the window was the best thing about flying. It was amazing and beautiful and rich and sickening all at once, and he loved it.

After a while William fell asleep, lulled by the slight rocking of the plane. How long he had been sleeping was unclear, but what was clear was that the rocking became much less soothing. The plane lurched sharply to the left, causing the cassette player to clatter onto the seat tray and William to awake with a jerk. An elderly woman shrieked. The mobster to his left clutched a jeweled cross from around his neck and began to pray furiously. William, however, just blinked. He'd been through this before, on that memorable last plane ride with Stillwater. Dying on a flight wasn't a worry for him... in fact, he doubted they were in that much danger at all. This was mere turbulence. You weren't in real danger unless you were smack in the middle of an electrical storm. Or a hurricane, or something.

The plane lurched again, to the right, and this time several people squealed. A stewardess went rushing by them to the front of the plane and hurriedly ran in the cockpit. Many of the passengers leaned forward noticeably, straining to hear, but the cockpit door was steel and thick. A few intense moments later the stewardess stepped out, smiling hollowly. William's calm composure faded a smidge. "Ladies and gentlemen, please stay calm. We are encountering a little transatlantic turbulence due to a reported hurricane buildup." Okay, maybe they were in danger. Crap. "The pilot has just contacted several nearby airports and we are going to land at the nearest one. We should be there in about ten or fifteen minutes."

Ten minutes? Ten or fifteen minutes. Oh God, they were going to die, every one of them. A hurricane could turn into a Greek Titan within fifteen minutes. And he was going to spend his last minutes on earth sitting next to the exact stereotype of an Italian hit man, listening to an old woman scream.

William stuck out a hand. "Hi, I'm William Miller." The mobster just stared, frowning, at the hand hanging in midair. "Okay then." He pulled his hand back, wiggling fingers in growing anxiety. God, he was going to die and it wasn't the right time. If he was going to die, he would want to at least be with friends, but apparently that wasn't going to happen. No, he was going to die on American Airlines #0372, watching out the window as the view went from amazing to more and more sickening.

He unbuckled his seatbelt (why not? they would all die anyway), stumbling past the hitman and down the aisle to the bathroom, where he spluttered weakly and splashed water on his face. The cold water stung and awoke his logical side. _Calm down, William,_ his brain whispered. _Ten minutes is not very long. You've done this before.  
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_Yes, but last time I wasn't thinking about it,_ he mentally replied. _I was too angry at Jeff and Russell. I didn't have a chance to think about the possibility of dying.  
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_No matter,_ said his brain. _You are going to walk back to your seat as gracefully and smoothly as you possibly can under the circumstances and buckle yourself in. If you are going to die, you may as well spend your last minutes remembering the good times.  
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_William, well-trained to obeying orders, did just that. Behind eyelids he could see the best few weeks of his life. Russell, Penny, Sapphire, Polexia, Jeff, Dick, Dennis, Beth, Ed, Larry. Topeka, outside at the pool, watching Russell yell from the roof. Polaroids strewn all over the bus courtesy of Penny. Sapphire randomly kissing him on the cheek. Polexia, flowery hat and oversized shades, whispering in his ear. Temper tantrums due to Jeff's ego. Dick counseling a hungover Russell in a random kitchen in Kansas. Dennis, with his flashy shades and big collars and oozing record-company money, offering to fly them wherever they wanted to go. Beth reading various auras. Ed sitting quietly, observing the others. Larry looking sleepy. All of them, singing "Tiny Dancer" on the bus, together.

When he opened his eyes a few moments later the stewardess was smiling better and announcing that the plane was pulling into the terminal at any moment. William sighed, noticing as he did the mobster wiping his large brow with a gigantic handkerchief. The elderly woman who had been screaming shivered and her husband rubbed her shoulders gently. When the airplane pulled up to the gate, there was a mad rush to get off but the stewardess blocked the exit. "Ladies and gentlemen," she called. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" The crowd fell silent. "Due to the weather, the airline will be putting you all up in the Best Western for two nights, when the storm should safely have blown over. The flight will be leaving at approximately six AM Wednesday morning, June twenty-seventh." She smiled widely. "Have a nice stay in Casablanca."

Casablanca? As in the movie _Casablanca_? William remembered it vaguely. Anita, upon renting it with Darrell, had insisted that he see it. All he really remembered was that it was black-and-white. And it was set somewhere in Africa, near Europe. Where? The answer was itching at his brain. He knew this, he knew where Casablanca was.... Suddenly the truth hit him. _Morocco._ Casablanca was a city in Morocco. How had he forgotten that? "The World's Most Dangerous City"... Casablanca, Morocco...

Walking out of the airport terminal - almost in a daze - he strode into someone, knocking their luggage all over the floor. "I am so, so sorry," he apologized quickly, leaning down to help the man, whose suitcase had exploded onto the cement sidewalk. The man grunted. Picking up a tube of toothpaste, William glanced up and stopped suddenly. With a huff, the man seized his toothpaste, stood up, and angrily lugged his stuff away. William, however, squatted on the floor, staring off into the distance. He recognized that hair anywhere.

Penny Lane was in Morocco.


	2. Chapter 2

_DISCLAIMER: Still a poor writer of fics and other stories; still not Cameron Crowe. Thanks to those who reviewed!_

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For a minute or two William stood and watched, blinking in disbelief; for a minute or two he toyed with the idea of letting her go, then holing up in his Best Western room for the next two days, vanishing from Morocco as if a phantom. But then she moved from the newsstand at which she stood, turned to leave, and he found that his feet were pounding against the tile floor. He also seemed to be yelling. "_Penny_!" Nothing. "PENNY! _PENNY LANE_!"

The blond aura of curls stopped, then bounced as she slowly turned her head. The look of vague confusion on her face quickly changed to recognition as she spotted him thundering toward her (although how could she not notice, thought William, he'd always run a little funny, and now bit his lip midstride); "Mr. William Miller!" she said happily. "How _are_ you?"

"Okay," he panted, hands on his knees. His lower back felt sore; his duffel bag had been beating against it as he ran. "So... you... really did it... huh?"

She grinned. The familiarity of it burned his eyeballs. "Miss Anastasia Carbondale, jewelry-maker and airport-loiterer, at your service." She extended a hand, which William shook awkwardly. Penny -- and Anastasia, and Lady -- let out a tiny laugh. "Come on, let's go somewhere."

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"I like airports," she confessed. In his hotel room the one full-size bed was encased in a striped navy comforter, which had looked rather tidy and nice before she'd sat on it. "They're tiny microcosms of the human race."

"Like a college, you mean?"

"Yes," said Penny, who had never been to college, "but smaller."

"Like a tour bus." William eyed her under lowered lids, fiddling with the zipper on his duffel bag. He wanted to make sure everything was still there; on a family vacation a few years ago the flight had lost his luggage, and since then he had never quite trusted airlines.

Penny's face sort of _stopped_ for a moment, the same way it had when he told her Russell sold her out for Heineken, then her expression of amiability came back full force. "Something like that," she said. A pause. "Listen--" It was her _you're too sweet for rock and roll_ voice, the one William felt patronizing, and a strong wave of dislike splashed him across the face.

"I called you," he said. God, he felt fifteen and awkward all over again. "You said to call if I needed a rescue."

"Did I?"

"Yeah," he spewed, "the night we met, at Black Sabbath, outside the loading dock after you asked if I wanted to come _here_" -- he gestured to Morocco through the window -- "and right before Mom used the family whistle and I had to go." He halted, realizing how he must sound. So much for sounding mature. "Sorry," he added.

Penny nodded. "I was probably here when you called. I meant to maybe call when I got back, but that didn't end up happening." She smiled wryly. "What's it been, five years?"

"About that."

"Well, that calls for a sort of reunion celebration," she said, "so get up. I'm taking you to dinner." She stood up, hands on her hips, and raised her eyebrows at him.


End file.
